


I Think I've Come A Long Long Way To Sit Before You Here Today

by ArwenKenobi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenKenobi/pseuds/ArwenKenobi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year after John is killed Sherlock starts to wonder whether John has actually gone anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**  
_19 -20 December 2012_   
**

It was exactly one year since John had bled to death in Sherlock’s arms during a blizzard and Sherlock was doing his best to not notice it. December the nineteenth was just another day in December. This year it was a mild day: crisp wind, the kind that got you right to the bone if you let it, with a grey sky and a high of eight degrees. Wonderful weather if Sherlock had any opinion on the weather. What was the point of complimenting or complaining about the weather like anyone’s approval or disproval would influence things either way? Idiotic. Almost as idiotic as Mrs. Hudson sending him chocolate biscuits and a poinsettia today. Really? What was that meant to accomplish? Was it some gesture to replace the one’s he had thrown at her last year when she’d tried to hug him?

He still doesn’t understand why she’d been so upset. What sort of reaction had she been expecting? John had been gone nearly seven-

 _Stop it. Today is December the nineteenth and it is just another day._

He stops the thought and goes about examining the crime scene. Robbery. The victim’s father is clearly responsible, the angle of the table and the discarded Pepsi can tells it all, but he continues staring at it. If he continues to look busy and snap at someone every few minutes then Lestrade will not say anything. Hell either be too frustrated to bother or simply too scared. Everyone is scared of him now. He had murdered a man with nothing but his bare hands and a scalpel; more so with the hands than the scalpel. That had just been some finishing work. Finer details if you preferred...

More than a bit not good. He’d done something that had needed to be done and there was no need to look back on it at all. Pleasure, pain, sadness, joy, rage, none of it mattered. It had needed to happen so he had made it happen. Again, why had everyone been so surprised? Sally Donovan had once said that one day they’d come to a scene and there would be a body that he himself had put there. Not that he’d left much mystery as to motive or suspect with that one. An infant would have seen it and understood.

Everyone had always assumed that one day Lestrade would have to bail Sherlock out of something using the plea of insanity. It would be a front, of course, and either he’d pull some strings or Mycroft would and that would be it. No one had ever thought that they would be pleading insanity for real and that Sherlock would be agreeing with it. He knew he could have fought it or had it waved away but he chose not to. He also chose not to even ponder escape or other means of getting himself released.

Sherlock chose the hospital over the howling quiet of Baker Street. He chose the padded walls and pills in paper cups. He chose arts and crafts and no nicotine patches and a room filled with nothing but himself and a narrow bed. It was boring. Maddeningly so but that had been the point. He had allowed himself to be committed because he had hoped to be driven mad. That and to stop himself from inflicting on himself what he done to Michael Gray but no one needed to know that.

He’s finally bored himself enough to leave the scene. He breezes by Lestrade before he can put a hand on his arm and invite him out to some pub to drink and reminisce. This day does not deserve recognition. It is just a ( _horriblevileevilsadsoulcrushing_ ) day in December. No reason to treat as anything otherwise. He never goes to the pub with Lestrade. He used to. He used to back when there were three chairs at the table. He used to do many things when there was one extra spot there. He doesn’t even take cabs anymore because the empty seat screams louder than the horns of the cars around him. It never used to be this way, he remembers. He had enjoyed being by himself and doing things where things were set for one.

John had changed all that and then had had the cold bloodedness to leave him with the knowledge that he had been lonely. Now he knew exactly what he had been missing.

John was not cold blooded, he took that back. He knew for a fact that John had warm, hot, blood. Especially when it was busy gushing out of a torn abdomen and trickling out of the corner of his mouth and when it’s covered in his hands as he’s trying to stop it.

He gathers he must have shouted ‘NO’ by the way the street is taking notice of him now. He hustles down the street to his ( _their_ ) flat and flies up the stairs. The minute he locks the door he hears Mrs. Hudson coming up after him. He ignores the banging, and the calling, and the threats to call Mycroft. Mycroft and her were in cahoots nowadays. It was horrifying. Horrifying in a very splendid way, he had to admit. He was sure John would approve.

There it was again. He sighed and made himself some tea. He hated Earl Grey but John had loved it (especially black) so that was all he drank now. He raised the cup, took a sip, gagged a bit and kept drinking. The gags soon silenced completely and then, slowly, turned into quiet sobs. John should have been here with him today. He should have been with him at that crime scene and he should damn well be sitting here with him sipping his own blasted Earl Grey so Sherlock wouldn’t have to do it for him.

What happens next makes perfect sense though explaining that to Lestrade and the three policemen who come to the door shortly after he’s finished takes some doing. On this night last year he had watched his best friend die. Then he had savagely murdered the man who had caused it. Then he had spent eight months in an asylum doing his best to be driven truly mad. When that had not worked he had shut it out. Mostly.

He had not grieved, he knows that. He had missed John’s funeral because he had been in hospital by then. Sherlock may claim he is a sociopath but he is far from it where John is concerned. He is just a little late in expressing his grief.

He promises Mrs. Hudson he’ll have the flat cleaned up and pay for the damages. His mobile rings as the sentence leaves his mouth and his brother tells him that he’ll send some men to replace the furniture, most of the appliances, and to fix up the walls. Sherlock is ordered go out with Lestrade for a pint on pain of having to go visit Mummy for a few weeks.

He chooses Lestrade. He even drinks. He drinks to the point that he remembers little except for throwing up most of it onto his new carpet and into the sink. He stumbles into bed and wakes up the next morning with a hangover worthy of some of Anderson’s wild nights. He is making himself some more toast, the tea was already waiting for him, when Lestrade arrives to check on him.

“Perfectly alright,” he assures him. He observes the dirt on Lestrade’s knees and the bits of greenery underneath his nails. Lestrade has been to John’s grave and has done some pruning. Lestrade is a bit of a gardener when he’s not working at the Yard – him and his oldest daughter often do so together – and he has appointed himself maintainer of John’s grave. Sherlock has never actually visited the spot, he can mourn John just fine without having to stare at the dates ( _6 August 1971 – 19 December 2011_ ) marking just how brief a time John had on Earth, and how brief a time ( _29 January 2010 – 19 December 2011_ ) they had together.

Lestrade is expressing his astonishment that Sherlock managed to get home in one piece. “Well done on getting some food down, you look like you have a monster of a headache.”

There is no use in denying the obvious. “It was much easier in a clean flat. I am much obliged for that, I am sure it was unpleasant.”

“I’m not passing your thanks onto Mycroft about that blow up,” Lestrade scolds him. “You can do that yourself.”

The day Sherlock thanks his brother for anything will be a cold day in the hell he most certainly does not believe in. “I was referring to the second mess.”

“You trashed the flat again?”

He has seen John do this for his sister once. John had denied that he had cleaned up or cared for her after one of her more amazing drunken rages and it hadn’t been to protect her dignity. He’d been treated like a common servant and he played the part of dutiful brother to make his sister feel guilty the next morning. It had not been a task he had relished but it had kept Harry sober for a few weeks. Harry had cleaned up after herself after that.

Lestrade is not quite as easy to read as John is ( _had been_ ) but Sherlock would know just as easily as Harry had if Lestrade was lying to him. Lestrade had not seen up to his rooms last night. He had perhaps led him to the front door but not up the stairs. Nor was he responsible for the hot pot of tea and the first round of toast.

When Mrs. Hudson seems to have had no part of it he decides that it must have been Mycroft. He does not thank his brother.

Late that night he pays his respects at John’s real grave. He stands in the alley where John died, where most of Sherlock had died, and leaves a single lily resting on the pavement. He stands there, alone and unmolested, until sunrise.

 **  
_19 - 20 December 2013_   
**

He is at the Yard waiting for Lestrade to get copies of the autopsy for the Spencer boy when he first sees the shadow. A shadow maybe is not the most accurate word. It is just a movement out of the corner of his eye. At first he thought it was just the constables bustling in the shadowy part of the office behind him but the office is empty aside from him and the few constables in front of him. He eventually identifies the shadow as a dying light bulb and snaps at one of Lestrade’s underlings to fix it. No one moves.

He harrumphs and busies himself with looking through the papers on Lestrade’s desk. There is nothing very important here. He flips through assorted case files, a few reports...a to do list proves interesting – it seems Lestrade and Mycroft are finally moving along with things – until Lestrade whacks him on the head with the victim’s diary, which has miraculously reappeared, and leads them out into the night.

The shadow continues to follow him. He says nothing to Lestrade and keeps his body language neutral as they return to Spencer’s flat and search it for the third time for the memory sticks. Lestrade eventually finds them and Sherlock takes them back to 221b to poke around with. It seems it is merely another copy of the diary but some of the dates and names are altered. Some events are also slightly different in the digital copy than on the paper one.  
He settles in for a long night of cross referencing, and it seems code breaking, until he finds himself dying for a cuppa. When he gets up to make his phone buzzes with a text message.

 _Need me?_

Unlisted number. Bloody Mycroft and his attempts at being subtle. He knows what day it is today and he can’t stop to worry about it now. He furiously texts back and informs Mycroft exactly how much he is in need of him. There is work to be done and the game is on. John would certainly not have approved of last year’s anniversary so he might as well do something that John would have approved of.

He once told John that there was no such thing as heroes and if there were that he certainly wouldn’t be one of them. It was a rare thing indeed when he admitted being wrong but he had to allow for the existence of heroes now. He had known a fair few in his time and he knew that now. He knew enough of them that he still believed that he shouldn’t be counted in their numbers. Any man who got his best friend killed does not deserve to be called a hero. Yes, Lestrade had called him one onceand so had a few of his clients. Even Anderson had said so once when he thought Sherlock had been out of earshot.

He is not a hero. He had once pursued these cases because they saved him from the overpowering boredom of his life. Now he did them because he had to keep busy. Had to keep his mind going and had to be distracted enough to not catch on that John was absent for too long a period. He had learned how to do chores and other various menial tasks and he even had a part time job with Molly at the morgue in an effort to distract himself. He also was now more than happy to deal with any and all of the idiots that Mycroft had working for him.

Most days, the approach worked. It was when he was alone in the flat at night that he was reminded of the fact that he was alone. That there was no one who wanted to watch action movies with him, no one to stumble upon his experiments, no one to complain about violin playing at four in the morning, no one to celebrate another case closed with him, no one to eat Chinese with him, no one to laugh with, no one to be truly impressed with him anymore, no one for him to be truly impressed _by_ anymore...

He drinks the Earl Grey, gags a little bit, and goes about his night. It’s a tedious business but it has its own charm and challenge. Finally the words just blur too much together for his overworked brain – it’s nearly daybreak now and he hasn’t slept in two days. He shuts the laptop down, puts his cup in the sink and leaves the notebook pages and printed pages scattered all over the couch.

He sleeps until the next morning. When he goes downstairs his papers are neatly arranged and the dishes are done. There is also a fresh cup of coffee and some toast and jam waiting – Mrs. Hudson he assumes, so much for the old ‘landlady not housekeeper’ argument. He leaves the food and sits down again. He’s had his rest and his senses are sharper when he’s hungry. This one is hard going.

“If I can see it you certainly should be able to,” John gripes. “It’s the names, not the events.”

“The names are meaningless,” Sherlock argues. “It’s George in here and Michael in the other. Dave here and Matthew there...”

“You’re a musician and you’re missing this? Really?"

“I hardly call George Michael music, Dave Matthews has its merits but...”

Suddenly if all falls into place: Michael instead of George. Dave instead of Matthew. He grabs his mobile and orders a complete referencing between Spencer’s music collection and all the suspects collections. Correlations needed to be made. Donovan and one of the other Yarders get that done in record time and Spencer’s killer (his girlfriend’s twin sister) is soon in custody. There is an accomplice and Lestrade and a few of his men are out getting her.

That light is still flickering. This time Sherlock is staring right at it. It’s a new bulb but it flickers anyway. Perhaps the lamp needs to be replaced.

As he leaves the Yard it hits him that he had a complete conversation with a dead man. Auditory hallucination, he decides. He always thought the best with John around him. This case had been difficult so his subconscious had conjured up John to walk him through it. He tells himself that all the way to the alleyway until he has to admit that he really is not sure at all about the whole experience.

The street light above him flickers and that makes him even more uncertain. “John?” he whispers into the night.

The light flickers again. Sherlock raises a hand heavenward and waits for something. Anything. A touch, a change in the air, the light to flicker again, anything at all to confirm what he never believed in before. Nothing happens and he hears nothing else for the hour or so he waits. No lights flicker on the way home or anywhere else.

Later that night, in either a dream or in a brief period of semi consciousness he sees John sitting on his window ledge. He has the loneliest, saddest, look on his face. He has never seen John look like this before. He reaches out a hand toward his friend. He isn’t sure it’s possible for John to look even sadder but he does as he sighs and shakes his head. His lips move but he’s fading away too fast for Sherlock to read them. He asks, begs, John to stay but his dear friend vanishes and Sherlock falls asleep.

When he wakes the next morning he is still not that he believes but he knows that he does not _not_ believe.

 **  
_12 -20 December 2014_   
**

Sherlock’s maternal grandmother had died when he was six. Grandmère Vernet had been his favourite relative and he had felt her loss keenly. Mummy believed in heaven and hell and such things and told young Sherlock that one day he’d see his beloved grandmère again. He had believed his mother until the funeral. Everything the clergyman was saying made no sense. How was any of this possible and how could anyone be positively sure that they’d see their loved ones again? Or was it all darkness and oblivion after all?

As usual, Sherlock had launched himself into books to find his answers. He came out with the belief that what most of his family believed was a comfortable fantasy they told themselves to make death easier. Death was the end. That was all. Life proceeded to do nothing but confirm this. He had been present at countless murder scenes and had seen many men killed. There was nothing there afterwards. No indication that any part of these people survived whatever had been done to them.

John had changed many things about him for good or ill. Trust him to shatter his conceptions of death. Or at least crack them since he still is very unsure about what exactly what he experienced last year. Unfortunately as the morning of the twelfth of December dawns Sherlock knows that four nights of staking out a drug smuggler in the rain have caught up with him, so he has more immediate concerns than life after death. He feels like he has been run over multiple times by a bus, or perhaps has spent a week or two as the floor of a London cab. Whatever the simile he feels disgusting. He pulls the sheets over his head and sleeps right into the next day where he actually feels worse.

This could be a combination of the fact that he is so ill he can barely open his eyes and the fact that Mycroft is standing over him. “I trust you will not be joining us at Gregory’s for dinner then?” It shows how ill he is when it takes him a moment to remember who Gregory is. Sherlock does not know why Mycroft feels the need to have this formal introduction type of dinner. He has known Mycroft his entire life and Lestrade for what feels like it. The fact that they now spend a great deal of their free time together is none of his business nor is it an impact on his life. He does however resent seeing them together because it brings back the thoughts he had had of John. Feelings that he was fairly certain that John shared as well and that neither of them had ever mentioned before the nineteenth of December of 2011.

He tells his brother that he is surprised to see him at a sick man’s bedside. Mycroft is more than a bit terrified of getting sick. It is really quite funny to see how quickly Mycroft will locate exits or step back if he sees anyone pull out a tissue. His assistant, Sherlock suspects, was chosen due to her titanium immune system. She does not get sick. Ever. Sherlock is sure to enjoy what happens when Lestrade eventually gets the cold that is circulating through the Yard. Will Mycroft come within three feet of him then, he wonders.

“Sherlock?”

He grumbles and then pulls the covers right back over his head. He hears banging around in the kitchen and then hears the tea and medication put his bedside table. “I want this gone by the time I check on you later tonight.” He snakes an arm out to snatch the medication, downs it by itself, and makes no move to grab the food. Mycroft sighs and takes his leave. He hears another sigh shortly after the door closes; an exasperated one instead of his brother’s close to piteous one. He is not worrying about this right now and hums a bit of Mendelssohn to himself as he falls asleep again.

He was roused some time later by a painful stab in his side. He groans in pain and does his best to ignore it. He feels it again, sharp and demanding, but it takes one more and what feels like a slap upside his head for him to get up and realise that it is a person who is poking him in the side. In the case of Mycroft and his fear of sick people it was more likely his infernal umbrella doing that job. He bellows something suitably scathing at his brother (he can only assume that it is because he can’t remember what he’s said) and shoves the toast, the freezing cold toast, in his mouth. He gets out of bed and nearly crashes into the wall as he turns the corner. He adds dizziness to his list of symptoms. He somehow makes it down the stairs, leaning against the wall and hanging onto the banister for dear life, to find no one there. There is also no evidence that anyone has been here in the past few hours but Sherlock would be a fool to trust his powers of observation when he can hardly see straight.

Oh, that’s new too.

He collapses onto the couch, pulls haphazardly at the Afghan that used to be John’s, and curls up into a ball and does his best to fall asleep again. His head is pounding and spinning and he knows he should go back to bed. He really should eat something before he makes it that far but he can’t coordinate his limbs to manage the simple task of walking let alone making anything.

He hears banging in the kitchen eventually. Quiet banging, or at least attempts at such. Whoever is here is making soup. It is either Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson but neither has said a word. The former would be checking over him to see how he was where Mrs. Hudson would be fretting like the grandmother that she was. He gives up trying to figure it out. There’s no real reason to.

He’s manhandled to a sitting position and a soup bowl is pushed into his hands. “Eat,” a distant, muffled, voice orders him.  
“Not going to stay down,” he argues.

“It will. Eat half of it and I’ll get you to bed.”

He knows that voice. He hasn’t heard it in awhile but he knows it. He struggles to place it as he gratefully eats all of what he’s given. He even feels a little bit better. The voice congratulates him on a job well done and then hauls him up. They’re headed upstairs. He keeps his feet moving but all the steering and support is being done by his companion. He is too tired to keep his head up and lets it lull toward towards his support.

His head keeps going and he almost falls right over but for whoever is holding him up. He hears a sad sigh and then his head is moved so it’s hanging down. “Not today, Sherlock.”

Now he knows the voice. He knows the step too, even though he notes that there are no feet next to him as they travel down the hallway. He shuts his eyes as he is put in bed and opens them once he’s covered up. He believes he sees a very familiar back clad in a very familiar oatmeal coloured jumper walking down the hall.

He calls his friend’s name but he even he can’t make words out of that croak.

That’s the last thing that makes any amount of sense to him for some time. He can feel the fever burning through him even in his sleep. Time and place have no meaning to him anymore; all there is is the fire that is coursing through him. He is visited once by Lestrade, he thinks, and he can sometimes hear Mrs. Hudson coughing from down below so he imagines she has to have come in a few times but doesn’t remember seeing or hearing her.

The only reason time returns to him is the date. The nineteenth of December has been burned into him like a brand and no fever can burn that knowledge out. He needs to get up. He needs to get to the alley. He needs to remember what was so strange about last year so he can see if the same thing happens again this year.

Any desire to leave his bed leaves him as a blessedly cold hand settles on his forehead. A second one cups his face. “Sleep,” John’s voice orders him. “You don’t need to go out and see me. I’ve never left.”

“You can’t be here, you’re gone,” Sherlock whimpers, eyes still shut. “I let you die.”

“You didn’t ‘let’ me do anything, Sherlock. I died. It happens to the best of us.”

“You were the best of us.” His voice is horribly slurred but he means every word of it. He hadn’t told John anywhere nearly enough when he’d been alive. He doesn’t think he’d ever told him.

“I still am,” John grins like he’s known the whole time. “Death’s not the end. It just looks like it.”

When Sherlock is awake and the world is clear again he finds an empty chair by his bed. His flat, nor the voices of Lestrade and Mycroft, betray any signs of another visitor. He asks for John again and does not receive an answer.

On his first walk outside in several days he purchases a pocket notebook and writes down a quick note to himself.

He pockets the book and heads to the florist shop. He gets yet another lily and heads over to the alleyway. He lays it down and looks up at the lamp post again. It looks new.

“Hello, John.”

He smiles despite the tears pricking his eyes when the four month old light bulb crackles happily at him.

 **  
_19 December 2015_   
**

John Watson is the world’s most practical ghost. It is a fact that should not surprise him but it does nonetheless. Granted it is in that special way that only John could surprise him but it is still surprise. He has not heard or seen him or felt him since last December but there have been enough little hints to his presence that scream “hello, I’m here!” as loud as if John were shouting at him.

Life and logic however prove to be very noisy. It was so easy to dismiss little things like books being moved or dishes being done. Sherlock has an interfering brother, a helicopter of a landlady, and a very concerned detective inspector for a friend. Said friend may end up being a brother in his own right in another two or three years if he does not guess wrong. That is beside the point. The fact is that any of these little helping gestures could have performed by anyone, including himself.

Logic is the real noisemaker here though. His beliefs and understandings coupled along with that. Hadn’t one of his prime tenants of belief been that if the impossible were eliminated whatever remained, however improbable, had to be the truth? It couldn’t be true if it had taken him years to sort out what all these gestures had meant.

He believes he has it puzzled out now. John had never left or if he had it had not been for very long. As far back as he could cast his memory he could come up with more than a few unexplained events. That was just from what he could remember himself – he knew full well that his memory was just as untrustworthy as the next human’s but he was rather brilliant. He also had discretely asked others: Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson to give names.

He did not walk up to them and ask them point blank as he might have done. He had spent nearly a year on a psych ward by (mostly) choice before but he had no immediate desire to repeat the experience. What he didn’t ask flat out he observed. Lestrade had had a few bits of evidence turn up inexplicably a handful of times over the past five years. That was really all that he could determine. Mrs. Hudson had nothing happen to her that she could recollect, and what she could she wrote off as being due to her old age. John had stayed far away from Mycroft it seemed.

Sherlock thought he knew why, too. If anyone had any ability to put the pieces together before Sherlock did it would be Mycroft. John did not want to ruin this for him. He wanted Sherlock to know before anyone else. He helped Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade from time to time because it would be unnoticed. John wanted, wanted more than anything in life perhaps, for Sherlock to notice him.

Sherlock knows this now. He’s noticed and he is ready. He has made sure he’s tidied up the Lethbridge blackmail case as much as possible. The nineteenth is completely free for his use. So is the twentieth.

Charting from memory, his exceptional but also untrustworthy memory, the major appearances have all happened on the anniversary of the day John had stopped breathing. When John had stopped all of this had begun. Flipping through his notebook brings a handful of potential events but none approaching the anniversary days. He has always been strongest in December, and the fact that he hasn’t made any sort of noise in months means he’s been saving every last bit of it for tonight.

If the Sherlock Holmes from four years ago could see him now, he thinks as he waits in silence and stillness on the couch for John, he would be mortified. He thinks John himself would have been as well and smiles a bit. It makes his face feel funny.  
“Been awhile since you’ve done that hasn’t it?”

He’s been waiting for that voice but it still surprises him when he hears it. He whirls to face the kitchen where John Watson is leaning casually against the wall. He is wearing his favourite pair of jeans and that damned oatmeal jumper. He looks completely solid and looks as though the past four years never happened, or at least had happened differently. John’s eyes are different though. They’re sadder, wiser, and he’s looking at Sherlock as if he’s the most precious thing in the world to him.

And Sherlock knows that he is and likely had been before he’d died. John had felt the same way about him and had chosen silence. Probably because he feared the rejection, or because he remembered being told that Sherlock was married to his work, most likely just out of plain old fear. Many of the same reasons Sherlock himself had kept quiet.

They had cheated each other out of so much, he realised. They had lost so much simply because they’d been afraid; and afraid of each other no less.  
He has no answer for John’s question. No answer in words at any rate. He manages to get himself to his feet and sleepwalks over to John. He’s standing less than an arm’s length away from him now. One move and he could touch him. One move and he also could reach right through him. He doesn’t know how this works.

He decides he’s far enough into the unknown to stop thinking about things that way and he grabs John, fingers digging into wool and skin and _John_ , and pulls him tight to him. John returns the gesture just as fiercely and the fingers that dig into his back feel just as real as the ones that had slipped off his cheek four years ago tonight. John is grabbing onto him like a lifeline and Sherlock is doing much the same.

He’s been lonely. So bloody lonely without John. He is going to have to put up with this for _years. Decades_ maybe. The thought had never crossed Sherlock’s mind before now. He’s either been enraged, grief stricken, ill, or busy. That has been the point after all. Now here, in the impossible place that is in John’s arms, he knows what facing a lifetime without him means. It is as final as a death sentence.

He starts to cry. Quietly, mind you, burying his face in John’s soft shoulder and hoping he doesn’t notice. He’s embarrassed but he can’t help it. He almost wishes that certain members of the Yard could see him now, the ones who hadn’t been so keen to have a known murderer working with them. They may not have approved of how his grief had manifested then but he gathered if anyone could be held by the ghost of their best friend ( _object of affection_ ) and not cry a little bit they deserved to be called a sociopath.

John, unfortunately, notices. “Hey,” he says. He forces Sherlock to look up and cradles his face between his palms. Sherlock keeps his arms wrapped around John’s waist. His fingers are a little bit chilly but not deathly so. Oh, god, he needs to stop thinking about death. He needs to stop that.

And now John is kissing him. Chastely. It’s a peck on the lips but it feels like someone has shoved an ice pack up against them. He muffles a bit in protest and John pulls back. “Sorry.”

Sherlock pulls him back and returns the kiss, also chastely. “Don’t be,” he says as he leans his forehead against John’s. “You surprised me.”

John snorts. Curious that he can still make that sound, Sherlock notes. It’s not like he can draw breath anymore... “That’s what surprised you? I’ll have to try a bit harder next time.” He leads them over to the sofa and gets Sherlock to sit down. After he does he watches as John regards the couch like it is going to bite him. John inhales sharply and very, very, carefully settles down beside him. He lets out the breath after a few moments. “Alright,” he declares. “This should work.”

Sherlock turns so he’s sitting cross legged on the couch facing John. John very slowly rotates so he is leaning against the armrest and facing Sherlock. Their knees are touching. They have never sat on the couch this way before. Usually John stays in his chair, the chair that Sherlock still will not sit in or offer to others out of habit, and Sherlock stretches all over the couch. On the times that Sherlock and John did sit on the couch together their were either on opposite ends or next to each other facing the TV, looking at the paperwork on the table, or whatever else they were looking at. Knees were touching there sometimes because they never had any sense of personal space. In this case, Sherlock knows there’s a meaning to the knees touching in this case and it’s not because he’s enjoying his company.

“Does tactile contact help?” he asks. John is doing three things at once: being visible, being heard, and being tactile. The previous Decembers he’s only done one or two of those at once. Performing all three must be quite the juggling act.

“You’re my anchor,” John agrees. “And the couch too, I suppose.”

Sherlock scoots so his knees are over top of John’s and he grabs his hand. It’s a little cooler than it was before. Not by much but just enough to notice. “Better?”

John nods but his smile is rueful. “I’m still going to be gone again by daybreak, Sherlock. Doesn’t matter how tight you hold onto me.”

Sherlock hangs his head. He had figured that out himself, naturally. After the nineteenth last year Sherlock hadn’t seen any signs of John until well into February. He supposed it would be even longer this time.

John’s knees nudge his. “Hey, I’m always here. Even if you don’t hear me or see me I am always with you, Sherlock, one way or another.”

Sherlock isn’t sure what one way or another is supposed to mean. The whole situation is confusing and by rights he should be questioning John. He should be having John tell him everything that has happened to him in the past four years and everything about the experience of being a ghost. There should be experiments and tests and questioning and all those other things that Sherlock loves to do when faced with something he doesn’t understand or can’t explain. The fact that John is before him certainly falls into that category but he has no desire to question or understand why John is here. It really, really, doesn’t matter.

John, though, has always known him better than anyone ever has. He smiles and even flushes a little at what he knows Sherlock is thinking. At the same time he tells him that his current state of affairs is ‘interesting.’ Sherlock cannot help asking how.

“I’m an observer,” John explains. “I can watch and listen all I want but I can’t do anything most of the time. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t and that’s just how it is. It’s easier with you and you’re the only one who notices me, consciously anyway, but it’s not always a sure thing with you.”

John is lonely. One night out of three hundred and sixty five hardly makes up for being a shadow in the world. Sherlock knows full well that he would have gone mad within a week. Was this what was in store for them all? He is afraid to know the answer but he asks anyway.

John shakes his head. “There are a few of us around who choose to stay and a few of us who have to stay for whatever reason. There is somewhere else that we’re all supposed to go if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve never seen it though so I can’t give you any insight on that.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to ask whether John has to stay or whether he chooses to and he knows well enough to not even suggest to John that he go on without him. Aside from that Sherlock likes the idea that John is around him all the time and likes knowing that for sure. He knows that John is not leaving. John is stubborn and he has decided that he is going to sit here until, Sherlock presumes, the reason for him to stay here is longer breathing.

If there was a way to make that period shorter... it was so boring and oh so melodramatic but if he could make things easier for John...

The cuff upside the head happens at supernatural speed. He feels the assault but doesn’t see John’s arm reach out or pull back. “Don’t even think it, Sherlock,” he warns, all dangerous eyes and a dangerous voice, the voice that had told many villains to stop what they were doing or they would be dead. “I’ve been very proud of you so far. I’ll leave you alone here, so help me, if you end up with me by anything other than natural causes.”

“What about an accident?”

“So long as it is not a staged one, fine, but if I have my way you are living a good and long life.” The words are a promise. Sherlock wonders just how much control that John claims to not have on the living world.

“What if I don’t want live to an old age without you?”

“That’s too bad,” John says, still serious. “I don’t want you pining for me forever. I don’t want you counting down days until you can join me or trying to cut down the wait. I want you to live, Sherlock. You’re living now, I know you’re living to distract yourself right now but I want you living for you eventually. If me being here to kick you in the arse every year keeps you on that path I’ll hang around forever."

All of it is true. All of it is true and Sherlock knows he needs it. There’s something else though so Sherlock waits, the unspoken ‘and?’ hanging between them.

John laughs nervously and rubs the back of his neck. The familiarity of the gesture makes Sherlock’s stomach clench. “Alright,” John admits. “And I don’t want to leave you either. I don’t want to go off into the whatever without you and I do believe I love you too much to leave you. Happy?” John shudders after the few moments when Sherlock says nothing. “God, that’s awful. Sappy, I mean. Christ, I’m a bad romance novel. “He buries his face in his hands and groans loud enough that Sherlock is almost expecting Mrs. Hudson to come running up the stairs.

Sherlock waits until John looks at him again and takes his hands. Colder than before; Sherlock’s watch informs him that it’s nearly midnight. “It is quite sappy but I can forgive you that. I can forgive you anything for this.”

And I love you too, he thinks. I love you, I love you, I love you, and I’ll love you forever. I’ll love you if I die tomorrow and I’ll love you if I live forever. It doesn’t matter. Such things could never matter to us.

“And I thought I was sappy.” John is laughing at him now but he is moved. Those are tears pricking his eyes.

“You can read my mind?” Sherlock asks.

“Not really but I know what you’re thinking anyway. I’ve gotten very good at reading you.”

Sherlock’s wristwatch beeps midnight and John sighs. A few more hours left until he faded into the background again. It is a dream for most people, Sherlock thinks, to have one more night with a loved one long gone. He also knew he would have several. What could they do though? What should they do?

They end up doing what they always did. Sherlock turns the telly on and they made fun of whatever awful film was on. During commercials, or during the dull parts of the film, Sherlock talks through his cases. Tells John about the finer details John may not have seen and updates him on Mycroft and Lestrade. That makes John laugh but he isn’t surprised.

They talk the night away, eventually ending up curled up together on the couch. As daybreak gets closer Sherlock can’t feel John on his shoulder and frequently looks over to if John is still there. John reassures him with a kiss but, soon, Sherlock can’t feel anything behind him but the sofa.  
For the last two hours they shut the telly off. They just lay there facing each other on the narrow couch. Occasionally they say something to one another but they spend most of it in silence. When the sky starts to lighten John starts to hum and then to sing a little bit.

“I’m a beggar in the morning  
I’m a king at night  
When my belt is loose  
And my trigger is tight

May come without warning  
At the speed of light  
Make it shine so pretty  
Make it shine so bright.”

He’s never really heard John sing. He’s heard him hum to himself or mouth along with the radio but never a proper sing, as much as one can in a whisper like this. John’s voice is leaving before he is apparently. At any rate it is surprisingly endearing. “What’s that?” Sherlock asks.

John stops sharply, not embarrassed but confused. Then he laughs a little when he realises what he’s been doing. “It was a free download they gave me at Starbucks or something. It gets stuck in my head a lot, probably because it was the last new song I really heard. Can’t remember the name of it now though.”

Sherlock flags the song in his memory and tells John to keep going. He’s curious to hear the rest and he just wants to keep hearing John speak before he was silenced for who knew how long.

John is happy to oblige and he fades from Sherlock’s view with the rising sun. He caresses Sherlock’s cheek and holds eye contact with him until there is nothing left for Sherlock to stare at. The last thing Sherlock hears of John is the chorus of that song whispered in his ear.

“I’m a beggar in the morning  
I’m a king at night  
When my belt is loose  
And my trigger is tight

May come without warning  
At the speed of light  
Make it shine so pretty  
Make it shine so bright.”

 **  
_27 May 2016_   
**

When he hears John again it is that song being whispered in his ear. He has heard the song multiple times by now (he’d bought the song the next time he’d sat at his computer), picking up exactly where he’d left off.

He forgets he’s in the process of examining a corpse and Lestrade asks him if he’s okay. He shoos him away and finishes the song and his investigation. Anderson asks him what that song is on the way out and Sherlock says he doesn’t know. Really it is a harsh instruction to Google it and a staunch refusal to repeat the lyrics.

Most couples have a song, he gathers. It’s only fair that they have theirs. Even if they aren’t, really, a couple, and the song was chosen four years after one of them had died and more by chance than by actual selection.

He enjoys that they are still baffling other people despite everything. He knows John is also delighted, he can hear him giggling all the way back to Baker Street. “Crime scene,” he whispers under his breath.

“Public street actually, not that it matters.”

Sherlock scoffs at that but hears no reply.

 _  
**19- 20 December 2016**   
_

John hasn’t done anything since May. Sherlock knows why and it’s all fine, really. A year without him has been good for him. He has to admit that much. Also it makes the night itself that much more important when he does appear.

They spend it much the same way. This time they’re laughing at Lestrade and Mycroft’s impending nuptials. They are booked for January 2017 since that’s the only time that Mycroft could guarantee he could clear his schedule. It’s going to be a quick ceremony at the courthouse – only him and a few of the Yarders as witnesses. John is doing his best to provide brother in law advice, as well as things that are certainly not good for a stag party or for a wedding gift. The Yarders are taking Lestrade out and Sherlock is expecting to attend. Sherlock has no desire to take his brother out and knows Mycroft would frown on this whole concept. John agrees. “Just send him something nice and not another diet guide, Sherlock, please.”

Sherlock promises to give it due consideration.

At some point in the evening John wonders about having sex like this. Sherlock rolls his eyes and calls him a typical male. They both, wordlessly, decide to not try. It probably wouldn’t work and it might even shorten their time together. Ironic considering this time they completely lose track of time and John vanishes in mid laugh.

The laugh echoes through the empty flat and Sherlock hangs his head. He goes for a walk in the early morning air to get out of that flat for a few hours. It feels like losing John all over again, to have wasted their time together this year like it was infinite.

He is a right devil to Anderson when he sees him and his current girlfriend on the street. He does not feel bad about it. Some people have all the luck.

 **  
_23 June 2017_   
**

Sherlock Holmes has not taken a cab in years but speed is of the essence. He’s on the tail of notorious car jacker Emmett Ryder and he’s this close to being in his grasp. He pays the cabbie extra if he will ignore stop lights and when they reach the appointed street corner Sherlock pays him double what he promised and rushes down the busy street, thinking he’s solved it. That Ryder is going to be his in a few short moments.

He thinks that even has the car hits him and everything is white, hot, searing pain. Nothing hurts as much as this does. He needs to get out and away from this.

The blackness doesn’t have to ask twice.


	2. Chapter 2

**  
_23-30 June 2017_   
**

Sherlock’s car jacker case involves lots of running. John doesn’t worry too much about running nowadays but the strain is showing with Sherlock. John knows muscle strain when he sees it but he knows that Sherlock cannot be happier than he is right now. John doesn’t blame him. It is a case he would have loved to be a part of properly. John doesn’t consider himself much of a petrol head but there have been some great car chases on this one. Ones conducted by Lestrade, whom John had never known had some advanced driving courses under his belt, since Sherlock had never seen the point of getting a driver’s license when he lived in London.

John had every confidence that Sherlock could work a car as easily as he could hotwire or break into one but he is, for once, deferring to Lestrade’s experience. Experience of course meaning that at one flick of a switch he could legally run through red lights and not be stopped. It is the first time that Sherlock has allowed himself to be seen in a police car while under his own power. It is priceless and John wishes he could be there with them properly – he’s terrified for his existence sitting unseen in the back as it is and Mycroft coming in and informing Sherlock that if he got his fiancé killed hell would be the least of his  
worries was sobering as much as it was sort of funny. Especially since Lestrade was in the room rolling his eyes at the time.

John has always loved to see Sherlock busy and living. He is especially happy that Sherlock had continued to do both after he’d died. Since this past December, however, Sherlock has been sluggish. The suddenness of the parting had been hard on them both, John had been far from impressed when it taken him a few seconds to realise that Sherlock wasn’t smiling at him anymore and wasn’t looking at him anymore and that the sun was starting to stream through Baker Street.

He hadn’t been able to speak to him or do anything to let him know he was still here since then. He knew that Sherlock was concerned that he may have left him. They were both in the most unknown territory they could be in – John knew he was here by choice and figured he would be here until he chose otherwise but he couldn’t be sure about that; there weren’t too many ghosts he was comfortable approaching to ask.

Aside from that Sherlock was moping in the presence of Anderson somehow getting another girlfriend despite getting dumped on live television by the last one and Lestrade and Mycroft’s pending nuptials. It would be adorable if John could do anything to comfort him, or if anyone else could. Typically he wasn’t letting Mycroft or Lestrade or even Mrs. Hudson anywhere near the topic of the pair of them.

Again, John was delighted that this case had come along. It had been a project on the go for the past few weeks and it looked like Sherlock was about ready to burst out of skin with triumph. The end was nigh.

Famous last words.

John shouts when the car comes barrelling at Sherlock. Of course he doesn’t hear him, of _course_ he doesn’t hear him. He howls, he runs, he manages to reach Sherlock and tries to push him out of the way. He hurls through him so fast that he can’t keep his balance and face plants into the street. That would have really, really hurt five and a half years ago but it has no affect on him now. He pushes himself up off the pavement, spins, and sees Sherlock go flying through the air and hit the ground with a horrifying, sickening, crack.

Then the car _keeps going_ and runs him over properly. John has been screaming something; a part of him is trying very hard to figure what exactly he’s saying. Then, as he staggers to Sherlock’s side, he knows he’s screaming for help and also screaming at the absolute horror of what is before him.  
He forces himself to step back. Someone is calling the police and it looks like there’s a paramedic in the crowd. John can’t help here as much as he wants to. He pulls himself together as best he can and waits for Sherlock to show up. He needs to be calm for him.

When John had died it had been relatively instantaneous. One moment he was saying his goodbyes and the next he was standing beside Sherlock as hugged the lifeless, bloody heap desperately and screamed for John to come back. John remembered trying to oblige him, he’d tried to leap back into his body like it was a car or something and seize control again. It hadn’t worked.

He’s wondering where the hell Sherlock has gone off to until he realises that Sherlock’s not dead yet. The paramedic has yelled out that Sherlock is still breathing. John is not sure whether he’s grateful or not for that – John wouldn’t have wanted to come back from that just by looks let alone what actual damage there is.

He’s curious, professionally and personally, but refuses to move to the growing crowd. He waits until the police and paramedics come. He waits for Sherlock to appear and, when he doesn’t, promises he’ll be with him again soon and thinks of that car. He shuts his eyes.

When he opens them again he’s sitting in the vacant passenger seat of Emmett Ryder, car jacker extrodinaire.

John doesn’t know whether he has only just now regained his ability to influence the physical world or whether his rage and grief are making things easier for him but he throws a wrench at Ryder’s head once they arrive at his garage and it certainly connects. Ryder stamps and curses but is mostly unharmed, much to John’s ire.

He spends the next week making Ryder’s life, what little John plans to allow him, as miserable as possible. He slams doors, he throws things, he locks things away, he whispers and yells what horrors will await him thanks to what he’s done. He’s especially active at night, of course. Ryder is a not a murderer, this was a rash act and something done distantly through a car because he thought it would be easier. He is not ready to face the reality of what he’s done.

John is a killer and he is perfectly willing to kill again. He’s killed for Sherlock several times in life and there were literally no repercussions for him to worry about now. He wouldn’t need Mycroft’s cover ups or Lestrade’s omissions here. The decent part of John hopes the police find him before John’s plans come to fruition but Ryder has remained at large so long for a reason.

Ryder hangs himself seven days after he hit Sherlock. Ryder’s terrified ghost barely forms before he vanishes. Most people linger a full minute or two before disappearing if they have a choice. Ryder was either allowed no choice or he chose to go to the hell that John had promised rather than face him. John had told him who he was, who he had been, and what he would do to him if he ever faced him on an even playing field.

He is pleased with himself. Very pleased with himself. For the first time he understands that smile on Sherlock’s blood flecked face as he had ripped out Michael Gray’s heart. It had terrified him at the time he’d seen it but he understood how sweet a proper revenge killing was now. There was a special pleasure in that he’d made the man do it to himself.

God he was sick and Sherlock wasn’t even dead.

That last part hits him like a punch to the jaw and he shuts his eyes and thinks of Sherlock again. He prays he finds Sherlock well.

When he opens his eyes he wishes Ryder had held on a few more weeks: he deserved far worse than what John had had the chance to inflict on him.

 _  
**July 2017**   
_

Seven days have passed and he does look better but John knows a tough case when he sees one. He reads the chart hanging off the foot of the bed just to be sure but it doesn’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know. Brain swelling, very likely brain damage, crashed twice over the past week, Glasgow scale reading of 4 (no eye or verbal response, responds only barely to pain), on a respirator...he looks away and stalks over to the window of the private room.

He has seen people come back from worse and succumb to less and Sherlock is an extraordinarily stubborn and exceptional man. All that being said John can’t comment effectively on anything until he sees just how much swelling and how much damage has been done. The fact that there is no DNR attached to the chart is promising. The fact that Sherlock would prefer death over living with anything less than his full mental acuity is surely well known.

Time is a bad thing when dealing with comas though. Everyone knows this. The longer you remain in one the less likely it is that you wake up. He has faith though; it’s one of the few things that he has been allowed to keep.

“This is the part where you wake up, Sherlock,” John tells him as he settles into the chair next to Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock’s respirator hisses in response. His monitors show a very slight peak but his eyes don’t move. They’re very slightly open; John can just see Sherlock’s unfocused pupils. John’s not sure if that peak is a response to him or not. He says Sherlock’s name again and nothing happens but he goes on.

“I’m going to assume you’re hearing me. That’s never stopped you before and you have to still be in there because you’re not out here with me.”

That peak again.

“I got Ryder for you,” he goes on. “Not sure if you knew that was him driving but I got him. He did it himself but I certainly forced his hand. I meant to and I don’t regret it.” He sighs and tries to take Sherlock’s limp hand. Nothing happens.

The last time one of them had killed for the other Sherlock had cloistered himself away. It had been an attempt to atone for his actions. Not for himself, Sherlock had never doubted the rightness of his actions and had no regrets about doing it, but for any sense of John that remained that would say that this was more than a bit Not Good. Not that Sherlock had any belief or any inkling of how close to the truth he had been.

John had never told Sherlock that he’d witnessed the killing. He had also never said that he had avoided Sherlock during the court case and for the duration of his stay in hospital. For the first part he had legitimately been scared of Sherlock and his own situation and had needed some time to come back. He had tried to let him know he was still here in the asylum but, Sherlock being Sherlock, had unconsciously known that he was there and it had upset him. So he’d left him for almost the whole time. He’d only come back again near the end.

Part of John wants to hide away, to punish himself for what he has done, but he isn’t going to leave Sherlock again. Not in what is going to be his greatest battle ever. Perhaps even his final one.

John had once told Sherlock that he was only dying after living a good and long life. This certainly did not qualify as a good and long life. “You’re getting through this,” he informs his friend. His heart is still beating and his brain is still working and as long as that remains true there is hope. “We’ve survived worse and we’ve done the impossible. We can do this. You can do this.”

He squeezes his hand and Sherlock’s squeezes back. John knows it’s only a reflex action but he can’t help but feel like he’s been heard.

====================================

John had never been a quiet person in life nor had he been a talker but since crossing into the realm of Not Alive John finds he talks a bit more. To himself, mostly, but also to other people even though he knows full well they aren’t going to hear him. Sherlock was the only exception to that rule and even that wasn’t a sure thing. He had no way of disproving or confirming any results his voice had but John had lots of time and the knowledge that Sherlock had the potential of hearing him. Just because he wasn’t reacting to Mycroft or Lestrade or anyone else didn’t mean he wasn’t reacting to him. The way John saw he had one foot on their side of the fence and one on his anyway.

Of course, though, topics of conversation were rather dull when one refused to leave the hospital grounds. His talks consist of what dirt he manages to dig up on the grounds, any interesting goings on, any ghosts he meets, or what Sherlock’s visitors don’t discuss when they’re in his room.

“Anderson’s single again,” he’s telling him now. “He’s got his eye on Sally again and Sally is leading him on just so she can get a chance to either deck him or tattoo ‘piss off’ on his forehead. I’m hoping it happens here so I can see. Anderson does have a lack of tact sometimes that rivals you.” Anderson hadn’t come into visit yet but Sally had. She’d come with Lestrade and Molly once. Molly had fled the room in tears and Sally had pitched a few cases she had to him.

“Something for you to mull over in there,” she’d said with conviction and borderline challenge. Good one, Sally. “I expect some answers once you’re back with us.”

Molly had never come back. Mrs. Hudson had come twice but looked like she wasn’t long for the world herself both times. John is pretty sure that she actually nodded at him on her way out the last time but can’t be sure.

Mycroft and Lestrade are both here now. The doctors and the nurses had taken Sherlock for some X-rays and some other tests a few hours ago and they were now awaiting the results. John had restrained himself from reading the images himself or following the doctors. He is pretty sure he knows what the answer is going to be but if he doesn’t acknowledge it he can live ( _exist_ ) in denial for a little while longer. Sherlock would call this hopelessly illogical. John calls it survival.

The primary physician comes in and leads them out into a private room. Everyone knows it’s bad if they’re going in here so she doesn’t insult them with dragging out what they all know.

Sherlock’s Glasgow test results have dropped to three, the lowest possible score. If Sherlock were to wake up tomorrow he would need round the clock care. He would never get out of bed, he would never do more than blink his eyes at them and make a few sounds, and he would need to be fed through tubes. That being said they wouldn’t know for sure about any of that until he woke up and those chances were less than stellar.

“Sherlock is not going to wake up.” Normally when this conversation is had it’s meant to be a bit more sympathetic and gentle. However this is Mycroft Holmes and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and she knows that approach will not be appreciated and it also needs to be said firmly without room for reinterpretation. The doctor doesn’t say anything but John has gotten very, very, good at reading people in the past few years. She really hopes Sherlock does not wake up from  
this. She knows all about him knows how much of a blow this would be to him.

Professionally, however, she can say nothing and lays out the options. First she suggests a DNR, which Mycroft refuses to sign. He and Lestrade are silent when she speaks about nursing homes but when she gets to the option of taking him off the machines Mycroft adamantly refuses. “He’s still alive.”

“Not really,” Lestrade says softly. “He’s pretty much brain dead – “

“That hasn’t been declared,” Mycroft counters. “Has it, Doctor Llewellyn?”

“Not at present,” Doctor Llewellyn agrees.

“Big mistake”, John says. It’s a matter of time and they all know it but she is too precise to say it. “His EEG still shows some brain activity –“

“There, you see?” The look that Mycroft casts Lestrade’s way sharply reminds John of the looks that Sherlock would shoot his way when he was looking-but-not-looking for his approval. Lestrade does exactly what John would do in this situation: he asks Doctor Llewellyn to excuse them and lays the facts of the matter  
out for him like he would to a young, daft, new recruit.

“You know Sherlock wouldn’t want this,” he concludes in his best, authoritative Detective Inspector voice.

“Sherlock never knew what he wanted – “

“You know he wouldn’t want this,” Lestrade growls. “You wouldn’t want this. I wouldn’t want this. Why on Earth would you think he’d like this? He certainly is not going to thank you for it.”

“Of course he is not going to thank me for it, Gregory,” Mycroft bloody near snaps. “The doctor was perfectly clear on his vocal abilities once he wakes up.”

“He’s not _going_ to, Mycroft!”

Mycroft stands, informs Lestrade that he was unaware anyone in the room possessed a medical degree. John mutters that he does and he agrees with Llewellyn’s prognosis to what he thinks are deaf ears. He isn’t sure but he thinks he sees Mycroft flinch just before he storms out of the room. Lestrade sighs heavily and folds his arms over top of the table and pillows his head in them. He sighs, heavily, and when he rises there are tears in his eyes. He brushes them furiously away. Then he leaves as well.

John sits still. It’s all official now. He lets it sink in and contemplates the chair that Mycroft Holmes was sitting in. He very much wants to throw it. He does. It doesn’t help. He heads back to Sherlock’s room without even noticing if anyone came to see what the noise was.

If John believed in Hell he knows that being a man as brilliant as Sherlock trapped in that sort of state had to be it. Part of John snarks that maybe Sherlock should have actually written up some proper paperwork about this. John had often warned him that any medical decisions would fall to his next of kin if he wasn’t able to decide for himself. John had long ago decided that Harry was getting no say in his treatments and had fixed that very early on. Sherlock hadn’t known that John had named him next of kin in place of his sister until well after his death.

He hopes and prays that Sherlock is unaware of the state he is in. He hopes that, if he has to, that Sherlock lives out the remainder of his days in unawareness of what has happened to him. Despite that wish John fills him in anyway, knowing that he would want to know and knowing how much it will enrage him.

“You have two options,” John whispers in his ear at the end of the debrief. “You either pull off a miracle or...” John shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath, and says it. “Or you need to come with me. You need to let go, if you can, and get out of there unless you really want to be locked away in there forever. You have to either wake up to them or wake up to me.”

There are no peaks on the EEG and no wailing of any alarms. John toys with mustering his strength and turning off the respirator but he holds his hand. As much as he knows what Sherlock would want, he knows this because Sherlock _had fucking told him and of course the bastard didn’t tell anyone else_ , he wants Sherlock to choose. John doesn’t want some poor nurse or doctor to get sued for malpractice for his interference. Sherlock needs to choose himself if he’s able.  
Or better yet, if Sherlock can’t, then Mycroft needs to understand that his brother is lost to him and he needs to let him go.

The Holmes brothers, John knew very well, were not good at letting anything go.

 **  
_August 2017_   
**

John has never given it any thought before now but John knows that Sherlock would never have lasted this long if their positions were reversed. Sherlock was all one for observation but nearly six years of it with minimal influence or conversation? Sherlock thought people were boring but he needed someone around who would hear him when he complained about it.

Actually he might have this all wrong. Sherlock would make noise. He would become a poltergeist, John knew it. He’d have haunted him so badly and then berated him for taking him too long to figure out he was here.

Sherlock also would have waited for him too. He would have complained about it the whole time but he would have waited; waited until he’d died of old age and screamed at him if he’d offed himself or gotten himself killed by accident. Sherlock also would have caused a malfunction in the respirator as soon as he knew it was hopeless. Sherlock cared about him; John knew that without any sense of doubt. Therefore, if John gave a tenth of a damn about Sherlock that he claimed to he would have pulled the plug himself weeks ago.

It’s been nearly two months since the accident. Sherlock’s status has not changed one way or the other since John had killed Emmett Ryder. John whirls around on the office chair he’s parked on in an empty consulting room. Haunting a hospital is duller than even he could have imagined but there is nowhere else he would rather be.

Routine has become very important. It didn’t used to be quite so much but he’s making it important in the case of Sherlock. He spends most of his time in Sherlock’s room repeating the news of the place, keeping him apprised of the goings on, and now openly encouraging him to let himself go if he’s able. He had thought before to let Sherlock choose it himself. Now John is acting in Sherlock’s best interest. Sometimes, more often than John had previously thought, Sherlock would take his advice. That had even been while he was alive and Sherlock had always respected his medical opinion. His medical opinion right now was that Sherlock was by far better off dead.

Before he gives that speech, that well rehearsed speech, John does a round of the hospital to send a few of the ghosts he bumped into on their way or give them a few pointers. Lord knows he would have appreciated someone explaining how things had worked to him during the first few weeks.

Dr. John Watson, spiritual consultant. God it was awful. Thankfully he has no intentions of setting up a practice. Ghosts aren’t really the type to stick around and talk to each other for the time that would allow for the forwarding of his name and location. Anyone who remains a decent length of time is far too preoccupied in whatever business they have that is making them stay than to bother with socializing or seeking any sort of ‘professional’ help.

You always know, though, when one is coming close to you so John is a little surprised to feel someone coming in right through the front door as he is leaving the exam room. In walks Mrs. Hudson looking as healthy as she’d been when John had first met her and she is looking straight at him. “Knew I’d find you here,” she says merrily as she approaches him. “Is Sherlock with you yet?”

John shakes his head numbly. Mrs. Hudson had looked ill on her previous visits but she hadn’t looked _that_ ill. She tuts and hugs him once she is in arms length. “Allergic reaction,” she tells him. “Would have gotten help if you or Sherlock were there but there you have it. Don’t look so fussed about it, dear. I’m not. I’ve had a good life.”

John hugs her tight in return and expresses his condolences anyway; it still seems the polite thing to do. “You staying?”

“Just to drop in on you two then I’ll be off. I was very much hoping that I’d find Sherlock with you though. I thought he must have given up the ghost by now, pardon the expression.”

“Pardoned.” They walk up to the nearest lift and settle in with the first pair of people it opens for. Once they disembark John closes the doors and punches Sherlock’s floor number. Mrs. Hudson looks quite impressed with him but doesn’t ask how he did it. It was always a sure sign when he wasn’t asked about his abilities that the person (ghost? Ex-person?) he was talking to had no intention of sticking around. Ghosts are a very practical lot and it makes John quite comfortable on the occasions he has dealt with them. Of course he supposes they can’t be all practical if there are ghosts like him around who hang around for years waiting for loved ones.

John knows that he can’t be the only one, knows full well that he isn’t, but it is a lonely business. Usually that doesn’t bother him but many things that are unusual for him have happened in the past two months. They don’t speak until they enter Sherlock’s room. Mycroft is just leaving, probably to meet Lestrade for lunch or check back with his minions, and he breezes through the pair of him. John is more than used to it by now but Mrs. Hudson is more than a little rattled by the experience. “That was unpleasant,” she gripes after she is done shaking. “I don’t plan on repeating that. Why do put up with nonsense like that, doctor?”

John doesn’t answer and of course Mrs. Hudson knows what it is. She settles in the chair by Sherlock’s bed and tries to touch his hand. She shudders as her hand falls through. “You’re really being unreasonable here, Sherlock,” she chides once she collects herself. She looks back at John. “Can he hear me?”

“I like to think so.”

Mrs. Hudson nods, understanding. “Get moving, Sherlock,” she says with greater authority. She almost sounds like one of John’s commanding officers. “There’s nothing for you here. You’ll go mad in there.” She hisses, pained. “He’s not mad is he?”

John shakes his head. What handicaps Sherlock was sure to have if he ever woke up alive were certainly not madness. Madness would not bother Sherlock so much.

“Think of him as a very young child, Mrs. Hudson.”

“He’s always been a child, dear.”

John isn’t quite sure if Mrs. Hudson was ever told the precise prognosis or if she’s just forgotten it. He reminds her, gently, that Sherlock is never going to wake up and that if on the off chance he does he will never be the same man that they knew and loved. There was no reason to deny it and Mrs. Hudson had loved Sherlock in the way that a grandmother loves even her most disruptive grandson. She tries to pat his hand again, fails, and tells him on no certain terms he is to get on with it and die right this instant. “You’re driving John spare,” she says. John glares at her but doesn’t say anything about it. Of course he’s mad. He’s been mad since 26 January 2010. Probably before that.

For the first time Mrs. Hudson actually properly notices the respirator. She glances at the tube connecting Sherlock to the machine and then looks at John’s hands, then at John himself. “Why don’t you do it?” she asks. “What if he can’t get himself out?”

“I don’t want to get some poor idiot in trouble.” He also doesn’t want to admit that he can’t touch the respirator. A few days ago he gave up and tried turning it off after profuse apologies to Sherlock. His hands would not connect with the machine. He’s tried to innocently touch the thing every night since then but to no avail. If ever the thing was out of his hands, it was out of his hands now.

Mrs. Hudson softens and doesn’t question it. She looks at Sherlock again and then looks at him. “There’s a bit of symmetry in some of what Sherlock does,” she announces, suddenly. “I think you’ll find him with you soon enough.”

“Did I mention Mycroft has proxy?”

“I said soon enough, love, not tomorrow. Would you mind walking me outside?”

John doesn’t. He takes her out to the front and finds it’s a gorgeous day in London. Sunny skies, mild cloud cover, and John is sure it’s warm out. Not that he can tell of course, it just looks like it. His old landlady regards the street like an old friend and then slowly nods. She hugs him once more and they say their goodbyes. John doesn’t try and convince her to stay. She does say to make sure to stop by and see her once they pair of them leave. He asks how she’s so sure that there will be a them and a her and a place to stop by in the whatever.

Mrs. Hudson says it’s because she says so and to leave it. She vanishes with a perfectly fiendish triumphant smile.

====================

John has never popped in on Mycroft Holmes since he’d died. Originally it was because he didn’t want Mycroft to be the first person that figured out that he was still around. Sherlock had grudgingly mentioned once that Mycroft was a quicker and better thinker than he was and John didn’t want to chance that being true. Afterwards he just didn’t see a point. Mycroft had been a mostly unwanted constant presence in his life and, quite frankly, he was rather enjoying the break. Also he wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to have some psychics or ghost busters on staff that would either end him or somehow send him off for study. Preposterous and he knows it but there it is.

He wonders if perhaps those fears are justified when Mycroft suddenly starts speaking to him. He’s not looking at him, he has no idea where John in the room, and he has only just finished talking to Sherlock. John himself has only been in here for the last few minutes or so; he doesn’t like hanging around when Mycroft visits. Eavesdropping is a part of his life now but, again, he is very cautious where Mycroft is concerned.

“I know you’re there, John, so would you do me the courtesy of acknowledging me?”

John’s better sense says to say and do nothing so of course John finds a discarded bit of note paper, balls it up, and bounces it off Mycroft’s head. He’s half surprised that Mycroft doesn’t catch the thing without turning around. John moves to perch on the end of Sherlock’s bed and faces Mycroft.

“Rather juvenile wasn’t that, doctor?” Mycroft isn’t looking at him. Good.

“What did you want me to do?” John asks, not caring whether Mycroft hears him or not. “Rattle some chains and moan?”

Mycroft doesn’t react one way or the other. John is irrationally annoyed and is considering turning that ball of paper into a spit ball (assuming he can make spit) when Mycroft starts talking again. “I appreciate the fact that you have not shut the machines off, nor have you made any attempts to end Sherlock’s life prematurely. I thank you for that and ask that you continue to do so.”

“I’m a doctor, remember?”

“I also would like to ask that you not encourage him to come to you. While he still lives his place is here and I know you know that.”

John raises an eyebrow and kicks his leg out so Mycroft’s chair shoves away from the bed. His expression is priceless and worthy of a good laugh (and a photo if he’d had a camera) but he can’t spare it. “Do you actually call this living, Mycroft?” he snarls. “Would you want this?” He’s not sure whether Mycroft hears the first part but he certainly hears the last, or at least John thinks so. Mycroft is still stunned from the shove that it’s hard to tell whether the blink is still an effect of that or of hearing him speak. His mouth works for a few moments before he gets up and leaves the room. He’s on his phone looking busy but John’s seen this quite uninventive cover up from Sherlock. He’s rattled him.

“Yeah, you run,” he mutters and moves the chair back. He’s just settled back into it as best as he can when he hears a new voice call his name.  
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stands about four feet from the doorway. He’d passed Mycroft in the hallway and had kept going to see what had had the elder Holmes so worked up. When he’d walked in he’d seen the chair move and that had sold him on whatever Mycroft had to have told him. Of course Mycroft had told him – John knows Sherlock would have told him if things had been reversed.

“John?” he asks again. “Say something, mate.”

“Something,” John replies. Lestrade doesn’t react; nor does he react when John tries to clasp his shoulder. Shoving Mycroft’s chair had been stupid and John kicks himself for that. Lestrade sighs and moves over to the chair, settles in and regards Sherlock. Sometimes John forgets that Lestrade has known Sherlock longer than he has, that he knew Sherlock when he was a drug addicted genius looking for quick thrills and his next fix. Heaven only knew what had possessed Lestrade to trust him, John remembers being more than baffled himself when he’d first met Sherlock and Lestrade. That had especially been considering he’d just been told that his brilliant, fascinating, flatmate had done something so stupid. He’d asked Lestrade why he’d put up with him and Lestrade had answered that he hoped that one day Sherlock would be a good man as well as a great one. John likes to think now, at what is certainly the end of Sherlock’s life, that he was a good man. Is a good man. Whatever. He also likes to think that Lestrade knows that as well.

“Well,” Lestrade says, speaking to Sherlock now. “I used to live in utter fear that you’d end up like this because of the drugs or because of some ridiculous stunt of yours. I never thought it would actually be an accident or that one of those guys would actually manage to get you.” He laughs, bitterly, to himself.

“Serves me right. I thought the same thing about John and look what happened to him.”

John had always known he’d die for Sherlock, with Sherlock, or because of Sherlock and it had all been fine. Sherlock had also known that his chances for a long life were diminished by his choice of career but, both of them, had hoped they’d be able to beat the odds and make it to retirement together and in one piece. They had never spoken this aloud but John knows that they’d both hoped for it. So much for that.

John hears his name again. Lestrade is still talking to Sherlock. “John’s here, do you know that?” He lets out a rusty chuckle. “Of course you do, you’ve probably known for awhile. You probably didn’t believe it at first – you should have heard Mycroft last night – but as you say ‘if you eliminate the impossible...’ “

Lestrade laughs a little again then scrubs his face with his hand. “I am going to miss you, you know that? Not just because you solve all my cases but because I like you. I hope you know that.”

John whispers that he does and he thinks Lestrade might have heard him this time.

“I’m not going to miss you even a tenth as much as you’ve missed John, though.” His voice is cracking now, slightly. “If you’re in there, and if you have any say at all in the whole living versus dying thing, you should go to him. You are going to despise what you wake up to and Mycroft...well Mycroft loves you. I really hope you know that too. He doesn’t want to give up on you. That’s what he sees pulling the plug as.”

Again, John tells Lestrade that Sherlock certainly knows all this and again he’s not sure if Lestrade hears him. He whispers something in Sherlock’s ear, something that John does not make any effort to overhear, and then looks at the respirator like he wants to shoot it. Then he abruptly stalks out, furious. Mycroft, John decides, it about to get an earful. He hopes it helps.

Mycroft, however, does not come again until the end of the month. He does not direct any comments to John and does not appear to be any closer to even considering letting Sherlock go.

 **  
_23 September 2017_   
**

John is the last one to see brain activity on the EEG. John is giving his daily report to Sherlock and he just happens to look at the monitors. He doesn’t look away for whatever reason and watches the readings read nothing. Then watches them stay that way for a good ten or fifteen minutes. Sherlock, naturally, is still breathing with assistance and his heart is still beating but the EEG informs him that Sherlock’s brain has finally died.

John can do nothing except smack the call button. He knows that the fact that no one was there to push it will be lost of the flurry of activity that will ensue once the nurses figure out what has gone on. Soon enough the doctor is called in, Mycroft and Lestrade are called, and paperwork is filled out. All this time John is looking around to see if Sherlock has popped up beside him yet. Nothing. He supposes he has to wait until the machines actually turn off.

He steps back to just outside the door when the doctor speaks to Mycroft and Lestrade and explains, needlessly, to them what brain dead is and what it means. Mycroft can’t argue with this and is told which button will turn off the respirator. He leaves Mycroft and Lestrade alone with Sherlock as they speak to him one final time and John only comes back in the room when he hears the respirator stop.

He ignores Mycroft and Lestrade as best he can, it’s a private grief and private lowering of barriers on Mycroft’s end and John knows how much that is costing him. He grips Sherlock’s hand as best he can and waits for the monitor to flat line.

When it finally does the sun is just coming up. The nurses come and turn off the machines, usher the two men out and get about shipping Sherlock down to the morgue. John remains in the room well after it’s empty. Sherlock is still not here.

“Come on,” he whispers. “You didn’t go on without me did you?”

Usually everyone is around for a moment before being swept up. Never, yet, has he seen anyone just not appear. Something has gone wrong, or else Sherlock ran the hell out of that body so fast that he didn’t care about who was with him. John wouldn’t blame him for that and he could join him right now if he wanted to. He considers it but something tells him that Sherlock is not here nor is he there. He’s ended up somewhere else and in this world not the next.

He casts himself back to when he’d been killed. He’d been right beside himself, right by the last thing he saw which was Sherlock...

The last thing he saw! Of course! The last thing Sherlock had seen hadn’t been John or this hospital. He’d likely seen that car. More likely the street.

He thinks of that street and hopes he’s right.


	3. Chapter 3

**  
_23 September 2017_   
**

Sherlock has always been good at remembering dates and at marking the passage of time. Even back in the cocaine days he always knew exactly what day it was once he came to. The missing days just rushed back to him once he was able to use his brain properly again. When he finds himself standing on a crowded street with cars and people passing through him however he is understandably confused and disoriented. He runs away from the people and the cars (he runs _through_ them, his mind tells him, right bloody _through_ them) until he flies up some stairs and sits up on top of a fire escape on a side street.

He waits for everything to catch up with him. When it finally does he knows his eyes must be as wide as they can go.

Firstly he has lost three months. That is a first for him but that revelation is nothing compared to the second thing.

That second thing is that he’s dead. Probably has been for the last three months. Where has he been?

He remembers the car. He remembers being hit and the blinding white pain turning into the blissfully painless dark. That must have been been losing consciousness. Had he been unconscious this whole time then? Comatose most likely, he had to assume comatose.

Then again, he reconsiders, assumptions really mean nothing here. He holds his hand in front of his mouth, he can sigh or breathe if he wants to but it isn’t reflexive and he really doesn’t feel the need to do it. He presses two fingers to his carotid artery and feels no pulse of blood there. Upon examination of his hands they seem solid enough but when he tries to pick up a squashed coffee cup his fingers drift through it like he isn’t really there.

A few people walk by underneath him. He shouts ‘hello!’ at them but none of them even break stride. He shouts again when a small child trying to escape from their elder brother rushes by. No reaction from them either.

6 January 1976 – 23 September 2017. Forty years; he’d lived just a bit longer than John had.

John.

Sherlock’s head swims as his head is bombarded with noise. Monitors, footsteps, voices, chairs scrapping on in floors, pens writing on clipboards...it’s an assault and Sherlock actually blocks his ears with his hands in a vain effort to silence them. Some voices he doesn’t recognize, the ones that he does loop through his head.

Sally Donovan giving him cases. _I expect some answers once you’re back with us._

Mrs. Hudson urging him onward. _There’s nothing for you here. You’ll go mad in there._

Mycroft, blasted Mycroft, couldn’t be more sentimental if he tried. Anyone else would find him as inhumanely cold as they found him but if half the things he was hearing were actually said Mycroft deserved a good mocking. Sherlock made a note to do just that once he figured out how to make noise that could be heard in his current state.

Lestrade is there too ( _I am going to miss you, you know that?_ ). What he hears there actually makes him pause, the rest is all whispers, but he feels both sadness and pride when it comes to Lestrade.

Then there is John. He is overwhelmed with John’s voice. ( _I got Ryder for you...You’re getting through this...You either pull off a miracle or you need to come with me..._ ). John, John, John, and more John.

John is dead too, his confused brain reminds him. John has been dead for years and had clearly been haunting whatever hospital he was at for months so where was he now? Had he gone on without him?

He looks down in the alley, no one there. He stands and walks to the edge of the walkway and looks out into the busy street. No sign of him. Perhaps, Sherlock thinks, John is still at that hospital. Perhaps he is still there waiting for him to appear. He glances at the street signs, quickly picks out three likely candidates and is deciding which one is the best one to start with when John appears.

At first there is no one at that corner and then John sort of walks his way into existence. Shoes appear first, then the jeans, then the jumper, and then John is there. He searches out the corner and then steps into the street, paying no mind to the people and the vehicles that pass through him. “Sherlock!” he bellows. “Sherlock!” John moves to almost the centre of the intersection, where Sherlock thinks the actual impact had taken place, and looks around again.

Sherlock wants to scream out at him from the fire escape but he’s fairly sure John won’t hear him over the traffic and his mouth won’t open. He wants to rush down the fire escape and run to him, but he can’t move. He only makes it to the spot on the walkway where he had been originally sitting before he has to sit back down again. John always figures things out eventually though and soon spies the side street. He looks around the alley first, of course, but eventually looks up and lets out an almost laugh – more of a sigh and a laugh and an ‘oh’ all at once – when he finds him.

“What on Earth are you doing up there?” Is the first thing out of John’s mouth and the tone – it sounds so much like they are on a case. Like they are both still alive – makes Sherlock’s queasy. He wants to answer but he can’t. His hands start to shake almost as badly as John’s left hand used to and he draws his knees up under his chin.

John is dead. He himself is now dead. He has no idea what is going on and he has no idea what is going to happen next. No deductions, no hints, no hunches.

It is terrifying.

John is up the stairs in less than five seconds and he’s down beside Sherlock with his hands firmly on his shoulders. “Look at me mate,” he’s ordering. “Look at me. It’s okay. We’re both going to be just fine. For good or ill nothing can touch us now.”

Sherlock isn’t sure what it is about that last sentence but that seems to calm him. It then crosses his mind that when this had happened to John, John had been alone. He shifts so they’re facing each other, and then pulls John to him. He presses John to his chest so his head is tucked under his chin, hugs him tight and dares whatever is out there to take John away from him a second time. He will be damned, thrice damned, if any Michael Grays or any Emmett Ryders come between them again.

John does nothing but hug him back, not quite as tight due to the position of his arms in relation to fact that he’s kneeling. Finally Sherlock lets him go, or rather lets him off of his chest, and instead allows John to sit and palms his face. John doesn’t pull back, just smiles happily at him. “Good to see you too.” He leans forward and gives Sherlock a kiss. When Sherlock allows his hands to circle John’s neck instead he turns it into a proper one. Now Sherlock knows without a single doubt exactly how happy John is to see him.

He’s found his feet again and it is oh so nice to be absolutely sure of something. Simply kissing, turns to fondling, which leads to clothes being removed and things being done that neither of them had ever considered possible before. Sherlock knows that he and John are breathing hard and he can feel John’s heart beating and that feeling nearly brings him to tears. John’s heart has been silent for years but it’s here with him, and his is here with John, despite biology and he can think of no more amazing thing in all creation.

The only other thing that could top that is the fact that they are engaging in carnal acts while dead in broad daylight on a fire escape. It is now how Sherlock had imagined how their first time would go but if Sherlock has learned anything in life it is that life never goes according to plan. It has taken death to teach him that that is not always a bad thing.

Once they’re done and presentable, not that it matters, they end up taking a walk through the city. The city both of them love as much if not more than they love each other. Most couples indulge in post coital cuddling Sherlock knows but his afterlife thus far has involved far less lying down and resting than most would expect and he is just fine to carry on with that trend. They walk and talk and take in the city from Sherlock’s new perspective, John pointing out some finer details and differences between then and now, and Sherlock finds himself loathe to leave this world. There’s still so much here that he never did or never saw. He is certainly curious about what lies beyond but he doesn’t feel rushed to do so. How can he after all? If there is an abundance of anything he has it is time.

“Do we have to?” he asks eventually, knowing that John will understand.

“I don’t think so,” John answers, half certain, after a moment. “I think it’s up to us when and if we go anywhere...though I did promise Mrs. Hudson that we’d stop by when we caught up with her. She seems convinced that there’s going to be a her and an us and a place for us to meet there.”

Mrs. Hudson may be right and she may be wrong but in any case Sherlock isn’t quite ready to meet up with her (or not) yet. John says he’s more than willing to stay with Sherlock in London as long as he wants to. “Even if it’s forever?” Sherlock asks.

“We’ll I hope you would at least want to see the world or something in that case but, yes. I’ll go wherever you want with you, Sherlock.”

That being said John does say there is one event that he feels they must attend.

 **  
_19 January 2018_   
**

“Courthouse wedding my arse,” Lestrade grumbles as Louise, his eldest daughter, tries to get his tie to stay straight. “Should have known Mycroft’s mother would have other ideas.”

“I think it’s nice,” Louise informs him. She pins the tie, steps back, and marvels her handiwork. “Much better,” she announces. “Now you look presentable.”

Lestrade thinks he’d look more presentable if he was a little drunk but Louise had only allowed him a few fingers of brandy and that was that. She reminds him about the need for actual clear consent and all that as he looks around for more. He allows the argument, grudgingly, and takes the white rose that she hands him. He slides it into his lapel and then Louise is off. Tess, Lestrade’s middle daughter, is off trying to find Karen (youngest daughter) to see if she has enough film in the camera. Karen is a talented photographer and is taking the wedding photos and is more than prepared for everything. Karen has never been taken by surprise in her young life and she certainly has extra stuff with her just in case.

Tess, being much more Anne’s daughter than Lestrade’s, is having a bit of a meltdown anyway about not having enough of anything and Karen is probably in hiding somewhere stealing a smoke.

Lestrade wonders how Mycroft really feels about being a step father to three teenage girls. He has assured him that it is all fine but Lestrade really isn’t sure. Then again, he had to admit, Sherlock had been a handful as a brother and he’d done just fine.

Sherlock. Sherlock who was originally going to double as both of their best men and had died a few months ago. Had he lived, or had things gone differently, he’d be hiding out with Karen smoking and giving her pointers on how to get the smell out of her clothes. He’d probably be providing her the cigarettes too. John, if things had gone really differently, would be exasperated and would be doing his best to get Tess off his back. Tess’s last boyfriend, some idiot named Mark, had actually looked quite a bit like John and Lestrade knew she would have been smitten with John the second she saw him. Poor bloke.

A knock on the door, it’s Sally Donovan. “You’re on.” He shoos Sally away in order to have one extra moment for himself. He’s wishing for another brandy (Christ, he hadn’t been this nervous when he’d married Anne, had he?) and then suddenly there is one sitting on the side board. He is quite sure he hadn’t poured himself and he knows that Louise certainly hadn’t done it.

Lestrade has never been one to question an offered drink, except while on duty of course. He downs it, thanks no one and steps out to marry Mycroft Holmes.  
He doesn’t find it strange when he hears John Watson wish him luck.

= = = = = = =

And just like that he’s married. Mycroft, of course, had looked as unflappable as ever but Lestrade knows him better. He had been just as nervous, perhaps more so, than he himself had. He also had been horribly confused by the scenes in the front row but he’d have to ask him about that later. It was quite impossible to have dead men as wedding guests wasn’t it?

He has never forgotten what Mycroft had told him while Sherlock had been in hospital the last time ( _I think John is still with us, Gregory. I think he has been with my brother this whole time_ ) and also has not forgotten that chair moving across the room by itself. That should have been impossible as well but, really, what was impossible to men like Sherlock and John?

He’ll have to ask Mycroft later about the guests trying to sit in those two seats leaping out of the chairs as if bit. Also about the distinct, at least partly, flashes of Sherlock and John sitting there. For the time being he’s busy being surrounded by well wishers. In fact it’s rather ridiculous how little time he’s had with his new husband thus far. Eventually, though, the speeches are over and the party properly starts. Mycroft and him get their first dance and then his next dances are with his daughters. It’s during the dance with Tess that he catches sight of them. Sherlock is wearing some designer suit that Lestrade remembers seeing him wear at the Yard’s Christmas Gala the last Christmas he’d been alive. That can simply be a hallucination on Lestrade’s part but he knows this has to be real when he sees John.

John is in what must be full dress uniform and Lestrade had never seen John wear it while he’d been alive. Neither has Sherlock apparently because he is as close to drooling as Lestrade could ever conceive him being. That is another reason that Lestrade is convinced this is real.

“Dad?” Tess asks. Lestrade shakes his head, now he can’t see them, and goes about his dance with Tess. The next time he’s dancing with Mycroft, finally managing to steal him away from his PA, he feels his husband stiffen ever so slightly. He spins them slightly so he can look where Mycroft is looking and he tenses as well.

Karen has somehow managed to take over the DJ’s duties and is blasting a song he doesn’t know or particularly like. It’s something about staying young and going dancing but it serves as a perfect soundtrack to what he’s witnessing.

Sherlock and John are waltzing. Sherlock is leading, him being the taller, and John is following along beautifully for a man who has probably never waltzed properly before. They each look precisely the same as they had back when John had still been alive. They also look deliriously happy and alive enough now that they’re with each other.

And of course they are arguing.

“Would you slow down?” John gripes. “Not all of us got ballroom dancing lessons as children.”

Sherlock give some sort of backhanded praise about John’s deductive abilities having improved in his absence and spins him. John only slightly protests.  
“Are you seeing this?” Lestrade whispers to Mycroft, making no effort to disguise the wonder or the emotion from his voice.

Mycroft very tightly nods.

Sherlock casually glances over and catches their eyes. He nudges John and he turns his head so he can smile that strange, satisfied Sherlock smile. John turns and smiles his own brand of smile then waves with his free hand. It takes a monumental effort for Lestrade to not wave back.

Sherlock nods at him. Lestrade nods back. John and Sherlock aren’t the only people who don’t need words to say the things that matter. Then he nods at his brother. Lestrade holds onto Mycroft a bit tighter as Sherlock says two words that threaten to undo him.

“Thank you.”

It’s a thank you for so many things. Everything from before Lestrade met them to fighting and hoping for him even in the face of death. It’s also a thank you for letting him go. Mycroft nods back, he’s beyond speech, and they watch the two resume dancing. They vanish from view as soon as the dance ends.

When they’re alone in the limo, heading off to whatever private island Mycroft managed to secure for their honeymoon, Lestrade tries to broach the topic. “They looked well.” He knows Mycroft will know what he’s speaking of.

Mycroft nods, his expression almost the softest it has been all day. “They did, didn’t they?”

“Think we’ll see them again?”

Mycroft does not have an answer but Lestrade knows he’s satisfied either way. As he said, John and Sherlock aren’t the only people who can communicate without words.

It is many, many, long happy years before either of them sees Sherlock and John again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Karen Lestrade puts on is "Stay Young, Go Dancing" by Death Cab for Cutie. YouTube it if you haven't heard it before. The music video is also cute.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's Note:** Sherlock and John's 'song' is "Beggar in the Morning" by the Barr Brothers and it actually was the Starbucks Pick of the Week in early/mid December of this year. At least in Canada it was, not sure if that translates to the UK, but the song just sort of inserted itself. You can


End file.
